Mercenary Black Mamba - Chapter 216
That wasn’t something a human could resolve. The DGSE’s Technical Design Division had examined and organized his parachute, but the worry persisted.
There was no choice. Dropping at 60 to 100 meters per second could crack even the skull. Even Black Mamba had no chance of surviving. There was a spare parachute, but that lacked safety. It was smaller without air holes and steering lines. Besides, it couldn’t withstand the weight of 220 kilograms.
The MC1 maneuverable parachute used vents and suspension lines to control direction changes and parallel travel. A trained airborne agent could move horizontally within five meters during a one meter descent. This meant that a person could move five kilometers during a 1,000 meters fall.
The compass attached to his altimeter only showed the bearings, so there was no way to know the distance in the dark. He couldn’t even tell how far north the currents had taken him. He had no choice but to head south.
Heat rose from the ground. His frozen helmet and gloves began to thaw rapidly. He manipulated the steering lines to head north. The dark blue canopy slowly crossed the black sky. It was the appearance of Black Mamba, who would later shake Syria’s foundations. The Magi had known of Jesus’ birth, but no one knew of Azrael’s descent.
Two blue lights appeared in the sky. It was Black Mamba who had opened his night vision, not Azrael. A canopy’s descending rate was six to 10 meters per second. The parachute was decreasing 90 percent of his speed.
150 seconds had passed since he had opened his canopy. Although he increased the time of descent by creating atmospheric waves using his resonance, the explosives and equipment had increased the time of suspension.
160 seconds later, his bags dropped on land, and Black Mamba landed like a feather. If it hadn’t been for the night vision, it wouldn’t have happened. There were many cases of people who had injured their ankles or knees by miscalculating the distance.
“Damn it, that was close!”
He automatically sighed in relief. He couldn’t have found the hard ground underneath his feet more welcoming. He wanted to kiss the ground, like Pope John Paul II. He hadn’t known he’d miss the ground this much. Free falling, drifting, opening the canopy, and landing had taken up 400 seconds. That 400 seconds had felt like 400 years.
He was on a dry hill without a single tree in sight.
He activated his dimensional sight. No humans were detected within 500 meters. All he could sense were wild animals, who actively searched for food.
Black Mamba moved busily. He pressed the immediate release button and removed the parachute, before taking out the field shovel from his backpack.
The shovel’s handle was a three-stage attachment, and the blade’s length was twice as long as the standard. It was a tool that Emil had requested the DGSE’s Technical Design Division to make, especially for Black Mamba.
He’d already become a master of shoveling during his bridge-town years. He dug a hole at a fearsome speed and buried the parachute and accompanying spares.
Burying used products was the first stage of infiltration operations. By now, the Mukhabarat, also known as the caveman, should have been alerted. Syria’s 300,000 armies of men would most likely be experiencing an emergency too.
A flare launcher had the same rocket-launching system as a MLRS. The flare launcher on a Hercules could release 30 in one set. They had wasted two sets, which meant that over 60 flares had poured out. The flashes of flares and missiles in mid-air could be witnessed from over 1,000s of kilometers away.
He finished his work and leaned against a tree stump. He’d wandered through the desert several months ago. Now, he was at an abandoned corner of a mountain in the Middle East. He smiled, laughing at his fate as a drifter.
His entire body felt stiff, as though he’d been beaten up by his teacher’s staff. It was the damage that had accumulated from the strong, cold air pressure and air currents. He was definitely mad for dropping naked from 40,000 feet above ground at night.
There weren’t any other physical abnormalities, but his entire nervous system had been excited from the sudden external shock. His ears, which rang as though bees had entered, was the major problem.
Even amid discomforts, he was hungry. He shoved in a handful of camel date palms coated in chocolate, before laying down. This, too, was a special-made calorie snack from the DGSE’s Technical Design Division.
The physical body of the new species was amazing, like always. His body’s senses and nervous system had returned to its original condition after a short break. The adrenaline coursing through his body had found its balance, and his hearing was no longer compromised.
The world truly didn’t move as one had planned. Who would have known that the missile was at some random place and not Kaparja Valley?
Wrong information was worse than having no information. If they hadn’t known anything, they would have raised the altitude above 13,000 meters as soon as they crossed Syria’s borders. He imagined Bonipas’ fearful face after receiving Claude’s report. He’d have to sweat a lot trying to alleviate Black Mamba’s anger.
“What a funny world. Should I just rob this b*stard off everything when I return? I could have died, but I did arrive on the first attempt. I should forgive him.”
He liked the comfortability that came with building a home and eating home-cooked meals, but he also enjoyed the thrills. Perhaps, living on the edge of a knife where life and death wavered was his fate.
Darkness, which was as black as ink, covered the view. He couldn’t discern north, east, south, or west, and even the insects were silent. Only a strange stillness covered the hill where grass patches were found between crumpled rocks.
Where was this place? He took out a 1:7000 scale tactical map. The eyes that emitted blue light swept across the map and its vicinity. Even if he had eyes that could see through the darkness, it was hard to imagine a three-dimensional terrain from a map. Some places were similar, and some not.
He activated his dimensional sight once more. He braced the oncoming headache and expanded his sight to 1,000 meters. Still, he couldn’t detect any human presence. He had to do something to gain something. He pulled out a rescue transmitter from his backpack.
He pulled out the antenna and flicked the switch. A blue light silently came on from the machine. Whether the machine could call in the slipper was a question to be answered.
There was a lot of information regarding the machine in a book that was as thick as a novel. The geostationary satellite would catch a signal and send the position to its mother. The mother would then send the altered signal to the slipper. The explanation went along those lines.
There were no hardships to driving even if one didn’t know how a car worked. He didn’t care about the rest as long as the rescue transmitter was sent to the slipper. Life worked the same way. A person could live without knowing philosophy and science. A human who lost their human characteristics were comparable to that of a car’s handles going missing.
Dry heat washed over him. The temperature wasn’t that high, but it felt hot due to his recent plunge into cold air. He was experiencing a temperature difference of 100 degrees Celsius within 10 minutes.
The neon needle pointed to 02:45 a.m. on his watch. He’d suffered through all kinds of things before the game even started, but it had only been 45 minutes. He pulled the camouflage tarp over himself and closed his eyes. He had to rest during a mission whenever he could.
He woke from his nap. There were people. Two people were climbing the hill from 200 meters away. Bright lantern lights poked here and there. Incomprehensible Arabic words were exchanged.
He hadn’t concealed his explosives bag. That was why comfort had led to mistakes. Steady footsteps were heading towards a certain location. Black Mamba clicked his tongue and pulled out of his hiding spot.
He was in an empty field. There were a limited number of people who’d come to such a place in the daylight. It was either the Mukhabarat or the slipper. Two men appeared. One middle-aged looking man wore a straw-like tobe and a keffier while the younger man wore loose pants and a short-sleeved shirt.
Black Mamba slowly crept behind them and whispered a code.
“Has the olive farm done well this year?”
The voice had come from a very close place where they could feel someone’s breath near their ears. Surprised, the young man jumped while the middle-aged man quickly pulled out his dagger.
It was a calm and strict response that any civilian could have shown, but it was also like loosening one’s hair before a ghost. Black Mamba’s chest twisted to the side, and his palm filled up the space between them.
With a light slap delivered to the middle-aged man, he collapsed without having a chance to scream.
The young man shouted.
A light resonance rang. The young man, who’d been moving back and reaching into his chest, grabbed his neck.
The young man fell back as he let out a stifled shout with a dart in his neck.
“Tsk tsk, to throw your life away for a question, don’t you think that’s a waste?” Black Mamba uninterestedly judged before checking his watch.
It was 04:50 in the morning. There wasn’t an hour left until sunrise.
“I heard the Mukhabarat were amazing, but it seems like that was all rumors.”
He searched the two men’s bodies. A traditional Arab sword—Khanjar—came out of the young man’s clothes. Whether it was a gun or a knife, he was dead, so it didn’t matter.
He found a sheepskin wallet, note, and a Tokarev from the middle-aged man. He assumed that the middle-aged man was a Mukhabarat, and the young man to be an informant. He searched for identity cards in their wallets, but couldn’t read as he didn’t understand the language. If one didn’t know, one had to ask.
“Ça va Vous passez?”
The middle-aged man shook his head.
“Do you know English?”
He shook his head again.
“Do you know Korean?” Black Mamba shouted in anger.
Of course, he didn’t know.
“F***** hell, I need to learn Arabic or something,” he said, with no intention of doing so.
He could pick up martial arts extremely well but was the complete opposite when learning languages. Learning French alone had caused his brain to melt.
“Hah, look at the guy run.”
The middle-aged man had escaped towards the lower hill while Black Mamba was distracted. It was the greatest survival instinct. He snatched the handle, which was poking out of his backpack.
A black line launched out. The Gorgon wrapped around the middle-aged man’s ankle. When his shoulder muscles’ twitched, the healthy man turned into a fish caught in a net and landed underneath his foot.
When the Gorgon wrapped around his ankle, it tore through his skin and crushed his flesh. The man’s white ankle bones were revealed. The weapon was too terrifying for it to be used at ease.
Half of the middle-aged man’s soul left. To him, it was as though he’d met a devil.
A primitive sound escaped from his throat.
“Sorry about that.” Black Mamba clicked his tongue.
His lower chin had shattered at the first slap, after all. French or English, it couldn’t be communicated. He felt slightly sorry, but what could he do?
He began digging another hole with his shovel. Labor that used the same muscles repeatedly was hard and meaningless. Digging with a shovel was one of the many difficult tasks he had attempted at his uncle’s house. He heard Korean soldiers dug holes and trenches all the time. They dug trenches, but he was digging a grave. He shoved the dead young man into the hole.
The middle-aged man resisted against the grip on his arm. The human’s survival instincts after sensing an oncoming doom grew desperate. He pointed to his mouth, moved it as though he was writing, then lowered his head. Every time he lowered his head, the broken lower jaw rattled uselessly.
Black Mamba handed the man his fountain pen and notebook. When he shone a lantern’s light on him, the man began to write.
Je sais que le français.
“You know French? You’re a Mukhabarat?”
The middle-aged man nodded. Many in Syria knew how to speak French after France’s long domination. The Mukhabarat, who was known to be the first secret police on earth, had a high academic background and was very loyal.
Assad, who’d entered the center of politics, belonged to the small faction of Alawites amongst the Shiites. The Christians, who took up 30 percent of Syria’s population, had supported Assad strongly. It was because Assad didn’t encourage religious oppression. Many Christians within the Mukhabarat knew how to speak French.
“Was there an emergency order?”
Reçu un appel Trois.
That meant they had received a report on the fireworks in the sky at three. It was an extremely efficient emergency line. A search and defense order had been given, not even an hour since it had happened.
“Where is this place?”
Le Maydanki Lake Village.
“F***, the Maydanki Lake?” he gasped out.
Maydanki Lake was a long, narrow, ribbon-like lake that was near Turkey’s border. He’d been pushed over 20 kilometers away from the contact point at Ain Dara Hills. If he hadn’t lowered his fall by diving, he would have crossed Turkey’s border.
His palm cracked down on the man’s head. The middle-aged man trembled for a while before falling forward. He had turned the man’s brain into soup with a single blow. He was going to be killed anyway. Sending him off without pain was also benevolence and kindness.
Black Mamba took off the middle-aged man’s tobe and shoved the man into the hole. Mukhabarat may be the figure of fear and hatred for Syrians, but he had nothing to do with them. He buried them to clean his traces, but it wasn’t a fun job. He slung the loose tobe around his uniform and twined the keffier around his head. Even if his clothes were messy, it didn’t matter as long as he didn’t stand out.
Black Mamba spread out the map once more and reconsidered his routes. He couldn’t move with his bags since the Mukhabarat was moving. It wasn’t for his safety. It was to avoid any unnecessary deaths.
Two helicopters appeared in the sky at dawn. A huge amount of paper fell from its tail like snow.
 Multiple Launch Rocket System.